


and set my teeth in the silver of the moon

by girlpearl



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Biting, Bondage, Bruises, Explicit Consent, Insecurity, Light Bondage, M/M, Marking, Podfic Welcome, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 13:20:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3251186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlpearl/pseuds/girlpearl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during the filiming of the "Centuries" video. Does what it says on the tin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and set my teeth in the silver of the moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whatimages](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatimages/gifts).



> with thanks to melusina for beta help! <3

Pete drops to his knees behind Patrick and holds his hands out, not quite touching but shaping the outline of Patrick's calves in the air. "Don't kick me," he says. His voice is rough and his throat scratches from the dust on set.

"What?" Patrick's voice doesn't sound much better--well. Patrick's voice always sounds better than Pete's, but at the moment, it's equally shredded from filming in the arena.

"I'm right behind you," Pete explains patiently, "and I'm about to touch you. And I didn't want to startle you and get kicked in the fucking face in the middle of a video shoot."

"Oh, Jesus Christ," Patrick snaps, twisting around from the sink to look down at Pete. "That was one time!"

Pete just grins and wraps his fingers around Patrick's ankles. "I have to say, these costumes were one of my better ideas."

Patrick snorts. "Subtle as ever."

"Hey, can I help it if your legs look amazing in leather straps?" Pete crooks a finger under the band at Patrick's ankle, then slides it up under the edge of the greave. He stops just short of the knee to hook his finger around the band there and tug. "Seriously. This is a good look for you."

Pete can pretty much hear Patrick doubting him. He hates that, still hates that after all this time, Patrick still doubts that he's-- _pretty enough_ or whatever. At least Patrick had agreed to wear the outfit, though. There was a time he might not have been so willing. Pete cuts off his train of thought--and Patrick’s impending protest--by leaning forward and licking a stripe along the back of Patrick's knee.

He tastes dust and sweat as he traces the tip of his tongue across the crease there. There's a little flutter and Patrick's knee buckles, just a little bit. "Pete..." he's trying for stern, Pete can tell, but he lands more on "breathless and grudgingly aroused." This, too, is a good look for Patrick.

"Yeah," Pete says, "it's okay. We've got five minutes."

"Oh, well then," Patrick laughs, but he turns back around and braces his hands against the edge of the sink, and Pete hears his breath come sharper and faster when he sucks on the soft skin behind Patrick's knee.

Pete traces the shallow groove of Patrick's thigh muscles up his leg, pushing the heavy leather straps and rough linen of the skirt up as he goes. He drags a thumb along the edge of Patrick's shorts, following the curve of his ass. "I wanna eat you out," he tells the skin on the back of Patrick's leg, soft hairs tickling against his lips.

"Fuck," Patrick swears, his voice deep and a little shaky. "Not now--we seriously only have like five minutes."

"Seven," Pete says, tilting his head and pressing his teeth lightly into the soft flesh on the inside of Patrick's thigh. "Patrick, can I...?" If he can't have what he really wants, he can at least give Patrick a reminder.

"No, we don't--" Pete bites down a little and Patrick gasps, cuts himself off as he realises what Pete's asking. "Oh," he says. "Yeah. I mean, it won't show there, right?"

"Way too high," Pete lies. Before Patrick decides to stop and grab a measuring tape or something, Pete closes his teeth around the now-taut line of muscle. The soft give of Patrick's flesh is exhilarating, the way Patrick's body yields to him, the way skin and muscle reshape themselves under the pressure of Pete's teeth. Pete bites down slowly, harder and harder, not letting up even when Patrick jerks and squirms in discomfort. Patrick's making sharp little sounds of agonised ecstasy, and Pete knows without looking that he's got a white-knuckle grip on the edge of the sink and that he's just as hard as Pete is.

When Patrick sobs out Pete's name, Pete has to force his jaw to relax, to pry his teeth from Patrick's skin. He sucks sloppily at the marks left there, tonguing the little indentations. "That's gonna bruise," he says, and Patrick laughs when he sucks harder to make sure that it does.

The rest of the shoot takes a slow eternity. Nothing goes wrong, there's no major fuck-ups or delays, but Pete's so impatient it feels like the crew are conspiring to keep them all here as long as possible. Even the enthusiasm of the fans feels grating instead of energizing, and Pete's selfishly glad when Patrick cuts his impromptu meet-and-greet short.

"Can we just fucking get out of here," Pete grits out, his face pressed against the back of Patrick's shoulder. Patrick's trying to get out of costume and back into his street clothes, and realistically Pete knows he's not exactly helping. He can't help it though; he's spent all day _not_ touching Patrick and it's like torture.

They'd managed to steal a few moments between takes, sneaking into a hidden corner like teenagers, Patrick pressing up against Pete, digging his fingers into his thigh and biting his chest while Pete clutched desperately at his back. "Better not leave a mark," he laughed. "Hate to raise awkward questions with wardrobe."

"Go fuck yourself." Patrick had flashed his thighs doing his stunt work and Joe had been unable to resist teasing him about the bruise. His tone was grumpy, but not legitimately angry or embarrassed like he would’ve been in days past.

"Pretty sure we don't have time for that," Pete said, and then it was time to go back to work, time to keep not touching Patrick.

Now the shoot's over, and it's time to _go_ , and Patrick's slapping his hands away, which makes no sense--Pete's trying to help, trying to get Patrick's clothes off, and isn't that the point?

"Seriously, Pete," Patrick says, but he's laughing, so Pete's not sure he believes him, "seriously, I'm not--stop! Let me get changed, I swear I do not need your help, and then--" his eyes dart around, checking to see if anyone's in hearing distance, and god, Pete loves him, what a dork--"and then we can go home and fuck until we can't move, okay?"

Pete hums thoughtfully. "Something like that."

Which is how they end up here, with Patrick on his back, knees bent and thighs apart, and Pete sprawled over the end of the bed, his hands cupping Patrick's ankles. "Seriously, don't kick me," he says. "I don't want to have to tie you up."

"That's a bald-faced lie," Patrick points out.

Pete just hums in response. Of course it's a lie. He keeps thinking about the brown leather strap of Patrick's gladiator costume digging into his calf, thinking about Patrick straining against that as Pete sinks his teeth into his skin--"Seriously, can I?"

Patrick drops his head back and huffs out a laugh. "Fuck's sake, Pete."

Pete looks up, frowning. "If you don't want to--"

Patrick pushes himself up on his elbows, frowning back at Pete. "What? No, I just--stop asking if it's okay, I don't know how many times I can tell you yes."

Pete can't help the goofy, hopeless smile that he can feel pulling up the corners of his mouth. "Maybe I just like hearing it," he says.

Patrick laughs. "You find the weirdest shit romantic," he says, like he didn't spend ten years telling Pete 'no,' like he doesn't know exactly what Pete means. "Well? What's your grand idea here?"

Pete bites his lip and looks around the room. "I didn't exactly plan ahead for this," he admits. His eyes land on the open closet and inspiration strikes. "Hang on," he says, pinching Patrick on the ass and standing up.

"Not going anywhere," Patrick says, sing-song. "Just saying, I've been very patient with you today."

"Yeah, yeah," Pete mutters. He shoves aside some old Clan hoodies and six pairs of Patrick's skinny jeans, revealing a tangled pile of belts and wrist cuffs that _someone_ promised he was going to organise last month. He pulls out belts one after another--too wide, too skinny, too many studs--and manages to come up with a handful of workable options. "You're a saint and I--"

He stops mid-sentence as he turns around, completely derailed by the sight of Patrick splayed naked on his bed. He's got one arm folded under his head and his legs akimbo; his other hand is wrapped around his dick and he's stroking slowly, biting his lip and humming with every squeeze, every slow drag of his thumb over the head of his cock.

Patrick's gained back just enough weight that he's got a layer of softness over muscle, luscious and inviting, and Pete wants to sink his teeth into Patrick's delectable body, capture that softness at his tricep, over his chest, his waist, just over his hips. That Patrick feels comfortable, confident enough to put himself on display like this is nothing short of breathtaking.

"Jesus _Christ_ ," Pete hisses, and Patrick opens his eyes and smiles at him. "You, uh, run out of patience?"

"You of all people ought to know by now," Patrick tells him, "I'm no saint."

Pete crawls onto the bed, dropping the belts next to Patrick and leaning down to kiss him. "Lucky me," he says against Patrick's mouth. "Saints aren’t really my type."

Patrick's laugh stutters and fades into a moan as Pete slides down his body, pressing hot sucking kisses to his neck, his shoulder, right over his heart, the soft curve of his belly, scrapes his teeth over Patrick's skin, chases them with his tongue. He blows over the dampness and nibbles at Patrick's belly button, and Patrick squirms obligingly, clutching at Pete's shoulders.

"Stop teasing, asshole," Patrick says, and Pete knows him well enough to hear the fondness under the profanity.

He just hums and keeps going, pressing his teeth into Patrick's hip--not biting down, just holding them there, tasting Patrick's skin--then a kiss at the crease of his thigh, carefully (but not so carefully that he doesn't rub his cheek against it) skirting Patrick's dick and mouthing at the inside of Patrick's thigh. He shoulders Patrick's legs a little further apart and Patrick plants his feet on the bed, pushing his hips up as Pete cups his ass and licks across his hole.

"Fuck, fuck," Patrick says, "come on."

Pete teases around Patrick's rim with the tip of his tongue, nips gently at it with his teeth before pushing his tongue inside, and Patrick whines, loud and greedy. Pete hums and pushes his face against Patrick, licking and sucking, sloppy and eager and not caring even a little. Patrick is gasping and sobbing and twisting his fingers in the sheets, and Pete would do anything to keep him like this, to take him apart like this, to watch him fall to pieces.

And then Patrick's foot slips; his hips fall onto the mattress and he just catches himself before his foot hits Pete in the shoulder. Pete pulls off, wipes his face against Patrick's thigh, and gives him a look.

"Fuck, seriously?" Patrick says. God, it's so fucked up, but Pete can't help but think Patrick's hot when he's being bitchy. "I didn't even hit you."

"I am not telling Sherrie that I can't do any press for the next week because I got a black eye rimming you," Pete says firmly. Even he has limits.

Patrick curses and pushes himself up on one arm, trying to turn over, but Pete pins his hips to the bed. "Give me the thing," he says, gesturing up at the belt half-buried in the bedding. Patrick flails around, finally freeing the belt. He grabs the other one and shoves them both down toward Pete.

Pete wraps a hand around Patrick's ankle and guides his foot into place, bending his leg until Patrick's calf is pressed against his thigh. He takes one of the belts and wraps it in a figure-8 around Patrick's leg, twisting it and pulling the end through the buckle. "Is that okay?" he asks, snugging a finger under the leather and wiggling it back and forth.

"Pretty sure this isn't exactly 'safe, sane and consensual,'" Patrick says dryly. "Unless that's, like, a quick-release belt."

Pete pouts. "It's not," he says, although obviously Patrick already knows that. "Sorry, I just thought..." He moves to unbuckle the belt, and Patrick stops him with a hand on his.

"Hey, no," he says, "it's okay. I'm not gonna freak out or anything, and it's not too tight. It's fine."

Pete's eyebrows go up. "You sure?"

Patrick reaches over his head and grabs a pillow, brandishing it at Pete. "I swear I am going to hit you if you ask me that again," he says, and Pete believes him.

"OK, well," he says. He leans forward and sucks on the head of Patrick's cock, a quick sloppy tease, and Patrick writhes obligingly. Pete looks at him and licks his lips, relishing the taste of Patrick on his tongue almost as much as the look on Patrick's face. "If I've got you at my mercy."

Pete licks a long stripe up the inside of Patrick's thigh, tasting sweat and warm skin. Patrick shivers and the hair stands up in the wake of Pete's tongue, marking his path like footsteps in long grass. Only in reverse. Or something, whatever. Metaphor is hard when Patrick is naked.

Pete nips, pinching Patrick's skin between his teeth, and Patrick yelps. He doesn't say “stop,” though, so Pete bites him again, again, again, nothing hard enough to leave a mark, just enough to sting, to draw a high-pitched whine from Patrick's throat, and Pete wants to bite him there, too, to catch the noise as it's coming out and pin it to Patrick, keep this feeling inside him until it's as much a part of him as his voice.

His mouth waters and he bites deep, tasting Patrick's shudder and groan. Pete worries at his leg a little, eliciting a hiss and a convulsive twitch of Patrick's thigh muscle. The belt is digging into his skin now, and there's a pink indentation visible above the edge of it. Pete runs his tongue along the mark then bites again, this time the fold of skin at the crook of Patrick's knee.

“Fuck, _ow_ ,” Patrick gasps, but when Pete lets go he protests. “Don't, come on,” he complains.

“I hurt you,” Pete says stupidly. Not like he didn't know that biting would hurt, but—it's not like that was his goal here.

“No,” Patrick says. “I mean, yes, but it feels good. It's just, you know, it's a lot.”

Patrick's face is red and his hair is damp with sweat. There's a bruise on one leg from earlier and his other leg is covered with red marks. His cock is straining upwards, slick with precome and Pete's saliva, balls drawn up tight, and with his legs spread, his ass is on display, wet from Pete's attentions.

“Yeah,” Pete laughs, “I know the feeling.” He leans forward and fits his teeth to the curve of Patrick's ass. Patrick takes an audible breath before Pete bites down and he cries out, straining against Pete's improvised restraints again. Pete holds on until Patrick chokes out his name and he thinks, “Too much,” but even before Pete can let go, Patrick's cock twitches sharply.

“Shit,” Pete says, wonderingly, “you're really getting off on this.” 

“No fucking kidding,” Patrick pants. “I did try to tell you that.”

Pete has gotten accustomed to thinking of this as something Patrick lets him do, but maybe it’s more than that. Patrick isn’t particularly forthcoming about what he _wants_ from Pete as opposed to what he’ll _tolerate_ , and this new information is tantalising. Pete's mind is going a million miles an hour, jumping from one scenario to the next, Patrick, squirming and overstimulated, Pete coaxing him to come just one more time, Patrick, gasping and crying, teeth marks all over his body, Patrick, panting and wrung out and begging Pete for more, Patrick, Patrick, Patrick.

“Yeah, we're gonna be talking about this later,” Pete says, then sucks two fingers into his mouth. He slides them into Patrick's ass and sucks down his cock at the same time. Patrick's making an absolutely filthy noise, pushing down onto Pete's fingers and up into his mouth, and it's no time at all before he's coming, fingers twisted in Pete's hair, pulling as Pete swallows greedily.

When he shoves weakly at Pete's head, Pete slips his fingers out and releases Patrick's cock with an intentionally obnoxious slurping noise. Patrick rolls his eyes, but Pete ignores him, sitting up on his knees and fumbling the belts off before fisting his own cock. He jerks off quickly; he can feel Patrick watching him but he only has eyes for Patrick's skin, for his marks all over Patrick, and when he pulls himself over the edge he points his dick toward Patrick's thighs, marking him one more time.

“Yeah,” Patrick says, obviously trying for sarcastic and missing by about a mile, “just what I wanted.”

Pete grins and attempts to wipe his hand in Patrick's chest hair, but Patrick fends him off and he's forced to settle for the wadded-up sheets. “Apparently so,” he says.

“Come here,” Patrick grumbles, and Pete snuggles into him, wrapping his arms around Patrick's waist and burying his face in Patrick's neck.

“Better?” He rubs one foot up and down the back of Patrick's calf; normally he'd wrap their legs together, too, but he's not sure how sore Patrick is. Plus, sticky.

“Mm,” Patrick hums agreeably. “Didn't know you had that much of a biting thing.”

Pete snorts and pokes him in the side; look who's talking, right? But it’s really not just a biting thing. Probably Patrick needs to know that. “I have a Patrick thing,” he corrects.

“You like it when I like stuff,” Patrick translates, and Pete nods. They're quiet for a minute more, Patrick's fingers tracing up and down Pete's back while their hearts slow down. Patrick takes in a breath, about to speak, three or four times before Pete gets impatient.

“Spit it out, Stump,” he says, pinching Patrick's waist.

Pete swears he can feel Patrick frown, but it works. “I’m not great at… asking for stuff I like,” Patrick confesses, in that same grudging tone he'd had back in their trailer. Pete hums in acknowledgment but doesn’t speak right away, rubbing circles on Patrick’s belly and trying to find the right words.

“Sometimes, I need to know that you want this too,” he admits. “I mean, I do know that! But I need to hear it sometimes. That I’m not… that it’s not just me in this.”

“Jesus.” Patrick sighs, a deep, shaky breath, and presses his face against the top of Pete’s head. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ll try to do better.”

Pete flinches. This isn’t all on Patrick, and he knows he needs to give Patrick more credit, to have a little fucking faith that after all the shit they’ve been through. “I mean, I could try not to be the neediest human on earth, but don’t get your hopes up.”

Patrick huffs softly. “Yeah, you don’t have to-- _claim me_. I mean, even if you don’t stamp ‘PROPERTY OF PETE WENTZ’ over every inch of my body, I’m still… yours. You know. I’m not going anywhere.”

The welling of emotions he feels at that--pride, shame, that fierce, truculent version of love that has always been for Patrick--is overwhelming, and Pete hides his face against Patrick’s skin for a minute. Patrick waits him out patiently.

“It would be a very discreet little tattoo, barely even noticeable,” Pete finally says.

Patrick smacks him. “For the last time, _no_. I am not getting your name tattooed across my ass. Or any tattoo!” he adds when Pete picks up his head hopefully.

“Well then, I’m afraid I’m going to have to keep biting you,” Pete says. “No other options.”

Patrick flushes warm. “I could probably get on board with that.”


End file.
